


In Search of a Hero

by razztaztic



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: AU, Everything happens eventually, F/M, Gen, WW2, no characters introduced after S8
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 09:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17041577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razztaztic/pseuds/razztaztic
Summary: AU, set during WWII. With the whole world at war, the country needs a hero and finds one in Captain Seeley Booth, a pilot with a reputation for daredevil exploits in the air. After he's brought home to lead a USO bond drive, sparks fly when he meets Temperance Brennan, the woman assigned to manage the national tour. Rated T, with the possibility of change to an M later.





	1. In Search of a Hero

"Miss Temperance Brennan?"

Brennan, along with everyone else in the room, looked up from her typewriter at the sound of her name. The rhythmic tapping sound of fingers on keys slowly faded to silence. The uniformed corporal who stood in the doorway obviously didn't know her by sight, as his gaze skimmed the faces of all of the typists sitting in neat rows behind their clunky black machines. She raised one hand to get his attention.

"It's Dr. Brennan, not Miss."

The corporal looked down in confusion at the note in his hand. "Uh, well, this here says Miss so . . ."

"Never mind her. She puts on airs, like that fancy college education matters when our boys are dying overseas." Mrs. Bridges, the grey-haired termagant who ran the typing pool as if it were a Dickensian workhouse, hurried over and snatched the paper from the hapless young man. Eyes wide with surprise, her free hand fluttered over an ivory cameo pinned to the neck of her blouse. "Oh my. This is from General Cullen. He wants to see you, Miss Brennan."

The metal legs scraped against the floor as Brennan pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She steadied herself with one hand resting lightly on the desk beside her typewriter. All too aware of the stares directed toward her, she looked instead at the corporal.

"Why would General Cullen ask to see me?"

The corporal pokered up with indignation and grabbed the note back from the unresisting hand of Mrs. Bridges. "The general doesn't answer questions from the typing pool. Come with me."

Mrs. Bridges piggybacked on his peremptory order. "Well, go on, girl. Don't keep him waiting! And none of that 'doctor' stuff either," she hissed, as Brennan passed her. "You're just Miss Brennan when you get up there, you hear me?"

Brennan ignored the old woman and hurried by. The clip of her heels couldn't mask the wave of talk that followed her out of the room.

The soldier waited ahead, his impatience showing as he waved her on. "Come on, put some giddy-up in those gams. The general doesn't like to be kept waiting."

She circled around a group of uniformed officers who cat-called and whistled as she passed, and pretended not to hear the offers of everything from a cigarette to a night on the town. All around, busy offices bustled even more as enlisted men by the dozens carried out furniture and boxes of files. The noise was a constant roar, and the smoke rising from the cigarettes and cigars of smoking men hung like a cloud everywhere.

It was somewhat quieter when they climbed up three flights of stairs to the Administration level. The corporal pointed her toward a closed door and then sat down at a small desk just outside it. "Go ahead," he said. "He's waiting."

Brennan approached the door with an unusual sense of wariness. No one - especially not a lowly typist - had ever been called to the upper offices. She spared one quick, fleeting wish that she'd taken the time to check her lipstick, then smoothed her skirt over her hips, squared her shoulders and knocked.

"Come in."

The gruff, no-nonsense voice matched the face of the man she'd only seen from afar as he marched through the building. General Sam Cullen, lean, with thinning gray hair and hazel eyes that turned the color of mud when he was angry, had been a fixture in the Army long before the United States officially entered the war after Pearl Harbor. Now, two years later, he was more entrenched than ever. Rumour had it that the business of packing and moving happening on the lower floors was solely due to his efforts to move Army headquarters from the crowded Munitions Building to new offices in the just-constructed Pentagon. Uncertain whether the general would expect a salute from a civilian employee of the Army, Brennan simply came to a stop and stood as straight as she could.

"General Cullen. I was told you wanted to see me."

Cullen gestured curtly to one of two chairs placed in front of his desk. The rest of the office matched his personality; the walls were painted a utilitarian white, the filing cabinets were gunmetal grey and except for the obligatory photographs of a wife and daughter and a framed diploma from West Point on the wall, the room was unadorned. "Yes, thank you, Miss Brennan - -"

"Dr. Brennan."

"Excuse me?" General Cullen was clearly not accustomed to being interrupted. Heedless of Mrs. Bridges' earlier warning, Brennan's chin rose as she held his gaze.

"I'm Dr. Brennan, not Miss Brennan. I hold two Ph.D.s from Northwestern University - -"

He cut her off, opening a thin folder lying in front of him and shifting through a few type-written pages. "That's right. Says here that you're not a real doctor, though. You're just some kind of egghead scientist. Is that right?"

The crass insult felt like a test. Brennan remained stoic and expressionless. "I am a scientist, yes."

"But you're sitting in the Army's typing pool pecking out requisition lists for the quartermaster."

Brennan's chin inched up further. "I came here to study forensic anthropology at Georgetown University. The Ph.D. program has unfortunately been put on hold until after the war. I needed a job so . . . Yes. I'm working in the typing pool."

The clipped words belied the sense of outrage she still felt at the cancellation of her degree program, simply because the male students had rushed off to join the war effort. Cullen, however, picked up on the resentment simmering beneath the explanation.

"Another Ph.D.? You collecting diplomas or something?" He wasn't interested in answer, and waved her to silence when she opened her mouth to speak. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers. "Mrs. Bridges tells me that you reorganized all the work that comes in down there."

Somewhat irritated at his autocratic manner and surprised that her bad-tempered supervisor had mentioned her at all, let alone in terms that might be considered favorable, Brennan frowned. "I merely made a few suggestions for improving the efficiency of our day."

"She said you drew diagrams."

Brennan felt heat rising in her cheeks. "Visual aids can be helpful when it comes to explaining new processes."

"Well, I need someone who knows how to get things organized." Cullen reached for a folded newspaper sitting on top of a thick red folder. He opened it, then turned it so it was facing Brennan. "Have you seen this?"

She glanced briefly at a headline that screamed EIGHTH AIR ACE PILOT BOOTH CRASH LANDS RECORD 17TH MISSION! WALKS AWAY FROM PLANE IN FLAMES! The grainy photo that accompanied the article showed a hunched figure running from the fiery wreckage of a B-17 bomber. Brennan shivered, an uncontrollable movement that took her by surprise, and shoved the newspaper away.

"No, I don't read the papers."

Cullen's eyes sharpened. "Why not? You're not some kind of pacifist, are you?"

Brennan shook her head. "No, I'm not. I simply hear enough about the war during the work day. I've found that the information printed in the newspaper is often incorrect or fails to match what I've heard here."

"Huh. Well, you should read this one." He pushed the newspaper back toward her, along with the thick red file. "Along with all of this other stuff. I'm re-assigning you to the War Finance Office, over in Treasury, starting tomorrow. That pilot, Captain Booth, we're bringing him home to recover from this last batch of injuries, and after that, he's going to help us sell some war bonds. Treasury doesn't have the staff for another campaign so they asked for somebody to help plan the tour, and that's you. The doctors think he'll be ready to head out in about six weeks, so that's how long you've got to get everything in order."

Brennan stared at him in shock. "Excuse me? I have a job already. You can't just . . ."

"I think you'll find that these . . ." General Cullen tapped the pen in his hand against the stars that lined the collar of his khaki brown shirt. " . . . mean that I can."

"But why me?" Brennan asked helplessly. "I have no experience with this sort of work."

Cullen shrugged. "Since you have two Ph.D.s, I guess you're smart enough to figure it out. Plus, I've done some asking around. You don't take any guff and you don't seem to be looking for a wedding ring. That's the kind of girl I need handling this. The Captain won't respect some headquarters pencil-pusher who's never seen action telling him what's what, and I don't need some dame losing her head over his pretty face when she should be concentrating on how to sell more bonds. You'll do the trick."

Brennan shook her head, surprised and a little overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all. "I . . . I don't know what to say."

"Start with 'yes, sir,'" General Cullen said, before he pushed his chair back and stood up, signaling an end to their meeting. "Congratulations, Miss . . . Dr. Brennan. You've been promoted."


	2. The Road Not Taken

Brennan squeezed herself into the last available seat on the crowded streetcar and tucked her handbag in her lap, along with the thick red folder that she'd carried out of General Cullen's office. Recent bulletins in the evening news programs over the wireless had been rife with stories of pickpockets and petty theft on Washington DC's crowded buses and trams and although she'd never seen even a hint of such activity, she was cautious nonetheless. She sighed and closed her eyes, and leaned back to rest her head against the window behind her, only to bump against the wide brim of the hat worn by the woman sitting next to her. She murmured an apology and sat up straight, then was jostled into a gentle sway as the streetcar jolted forward.

Two stops later, past the Department of Agriculture and the Bureau of Engraving, and the small public conveyance was filled to capacity, every seat taken and the aisles full of chattering government workers hanging onto straps and metal poles, all headed home after the long workday.

Brennan closed her eyes and tried to close her ears to the cacophony as a stream of foul-smelling cigar smoke blew in her direction. She needed a cup of hot tea and a headache powder, if one could be found in the women's boarding house where she'd been living since coming to DC. If she were lucky and no one had reserved the tiny bathroom on her floor, she might even get the luxury of a long, hot bath. If nothing else, she'd settle for the tea.

The afternoon had been interminably long. Her return to the typing pool after the meeting with General Cullen had been met with an explosion of questions, none of which she could answer. She didn't know why she had been plucked from relative obscurity to organize a bond drive with an injured pilot she'd never heard of. She had no idea which cities the tour would reach, or how long it would last. She certainly didn't know if any movie stars would be appearing on the tour, as well. All she knew was that she was to report to the Treasury department the next day, for what she hoped would be a set of thorough, detailed instructions.

Mrs. Bridges seemed to take Brennan's escape from the typing pool as a personal affront, and spent the remaining hours of her dominion over the younger woman muttering about what fate lay in store for girls who 'got above themselves' and threatening dire consequences for 'putting on airs.' By the time she was allowed to pack up the few personal belongings she kept in her desk, Brennan thought she just might owe this unknown pilot a kiss of gratitude for getting her out from under the old lady's thumb.

The streetcar was no less crowded when a tinkling bell signaled the stop that Brennan used. She squeezed through, clutching both the red folder and her purse close to her body, until she stepped onto the sidewalk to began the three-block trek to the boarding house. She hesitated briefly, taking a moment to enjoy the fresh spring air and the evening sky settling into dusk above her head. Despite the lingering headache and the uncertainty of her new assignment, a sense of freedom . . . of anticipation . . . surged through her. The meticulously-planned path she'd laid out for her life, rudely derailed and disrupted by the war and the closing of her degree program, now branched ahead into new and uncharted territory. Never one to enjoy the unpredictable, she found herself now strangely eager to meet the unexpected, to peer around the corner solely for the joy of discovery.

She headed home with a new lightness to her step.

The front door of the three-story, red brick townhouse was unlocked, a fact which her already-burdened hands appreciated and which gave her cause to hope that she might be able to escape upstairs to her room unnoticed by the group she could hear gossiping in the lady's parlour to the left of the door. Alas, it was not to be.

"Dr. Brennan!" The perky voice was as bouncy as the dun-colored ponytail swishing on the back of her head as a young woman bounded out into the foyer. "Oh my gosh! There you are!"

Brennan kicked the door closed with the toe of one shoe, unable to prevent the smile that curved her lips at the enthusiastic greeting. "Yes, Daisy, here I am. You know, you may call me Temperance. There's no need to stand on formality here."

Daisy's eyes grew round. "Oh, no. I couldn't do that. I like calling you Dr. Brennan. I've never known a lady doctor before. You're an inspiration!"

Brennan shrugged and, ignoring the anticipation in the quickly shushed voices in the parlour, turned toward the staircase that lead to the upper floors. "As you wish. Well, if you'll excuse me . . ."

The subtle hint went unnoticed; Daisy stuck to her heels, chattering all the way up.

"Is it true what they're saying?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," Brennan said dryly, as they reached the next floor. Her room was behind the second door on the right, the farthest from the noise of the stairs but closest to the communal bathroom located at the end of the hall. When she opened her door, Daisy followed her inside.

"Oh my gosh," she giggled, hiding behind the hand covering her mouth. "You sound so smart, like a teacher. Or a college professor!"

Brennan sighed as she put the over-stuffed red folder on her bed, and set her purse on top of it. The headache was creeping back across her temples and entertaining a young puppy with a case of hero-worship wouldn't help. "Daisy, was there something you wanted?"

The girl was clueless. She glanced around the conspicuously well-kept room, furnished with a neatly-made bed and a dust-free dresser and mirrored wardrobe, with a hand-painted privacy screen in the corner with a robe thrown across one end, and against the wall, one final piece of furniture that Brennan had purchased herself: a sturdy desk and chair, with a small black typewriter sitting squarely in the middle.

"I don't know how you keep everything so neat and tidy! I can't stop scattering my stockings everywhere!"

"It's merely habit," Brennan answered curtly. Deciding that only plain-speaking would get her the privacy she wanted, she walked over to the still open door and gestured through it. "I've had a long day and I would like to be alone now. Could we talk later?"

Daisy stayed where she was and began to babble at a frenetic pace. "Oh, but Dr. Brennan, my friend Cheryl, you've met her, she came for dinner once. She works in the filing room at the Treasury Department. She doesn't get to see money being printed, though. Did you know that's a completely separate department? You would think that since treasury means money it would all be in the same place but go figure! Anyway, Cheryl's friend Barbara Jean, her fella is in the Army, only he works at headquarters because he was hit by shrapnel in Italy and now he has a bum knee. I don't know his name but he told Barbara Jean that General Cullen - can you imagine it! - General Cullen met with this lady doctor and put her in charge of a whole trip across the country selling war bonds with Captain Booth, and he's a real hero and everything! Barbara Jean told Cheryl and Cheryl told me and, well, I knew that it had to be you that they were talking about because you're probably the only lady doctor in the whole country. So is it?"

It took Brennan a full thirty seconds to process the flood of words enough that she could make a reasonable response. "Yes, that was me. I mean to say that, yes, I have been re-assigned. But I can assure you that I am far from being the only woman in the country with a doctorate," she added, "not to mention the many women serving as medical doctors. Although I will admit that those numbers are woefully inadequate. Women are more than capable of - -"

A peremptory knock on the door cut her off just as Brennan realized that she was babbling as much as Daisy had been. Caroline Julian, the owner of the boarding house which she, Daisy and six other women called home, stood in the doorway.

Like Mrs. Bridges' control of the typing pool, Mrs. Julian ran her boarding house with an iron will and little room for argument. Unlike Mrs. Bridges, however, Mrs. Julian's instructions were never mean-spirited or created out of ill-will. Curt and abrupt and even acerbic at times, she was a stern maternal presence to the young women she housed, but was also quick to offer a listening ear or a handkerchief to wipe away tears, or a word of advice - whether asked for or not.

Just now, she looked at Brennan with a disapproving eyebrow raised high. "You have a gentleman caller, Dr. Brennan."

The words shocked both Brennan and Daisy.

"I do?"  
"She does?"

Other than a scowling frown that plainly told Daisy to be silent, Caroline ignored her. "A sailor," she told Brennan, with a look that made it obvious she did not approve of sailors.

Brennan frowned, unable to think of a single male acquaintance who fit the description of her mysterious guest. "Are you certain that he wants to see me?"

Caroline's full bosom swelled even more with outrage. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong with my hearing. I've put him in the visitor's lounge. You can meet with him there."

There was obviously no question of bringing a man up to her room. Brennan nodded and shuffled Daisy ahead of her as she followed Caroline out. "Yes, Mrs. Julian. Thank you."

"And mind you keep that door open, too," Caroline called after her as Brennan stepped quickly down the stairs. "I won't have behavior of a loose moral character in my house!"

"Of course, Mrs. Julian."

The visitor's lounge was on the main floor, directly across from the lady's parlour, and shared one wall with the stairs that led to the second and third levels. The door stood half-open but even standing in front of it, Brennan was unable to see her mystery guest until she pushed it open fully. When the dark-haired young man turned to face her, she gasped in surprise.

"Sully! What are you doing here?" Her gaze slid down the length of him, from the newly-shorn hair, dented at the crown from the hat he now twisted in his hand, to the sparkling white uniform that was so new, she could still see faint traces of the creases made while it had been folded and stored on a shelf. "And what have you done!"

He gave her a smile, as boyish and handsome as ever, his teeth white against the teak-brown tan of his skin. "I joined up, Tempe. I'm going to do my bit. How's about a hug for an old friend?"

She went willingly into his arms and when they wrapped her up tight against him, was swamped with memories. They'd met when she moved to the tiny community of Marco Island, Florida, for an anthropology internship in the Everglades in the mid '30s, just after the end of Prohibition. He skippered a fishing trawler, and owned a fleet of two more to boot. Friendship became a passion-fueled romance, that Brennan had ended when she realized his dreams of their life together differed from her own. Now, with his lips on hers, his kiss familiar and warm, held in his arms again after so many years apart, her affection for him made her fear for him stronger.

"You foolish, foolish man. You were doing your bit! You're a fisherman! The country needs food suppliers, especially with rationing and so much fresh meat being used to feed the troops."

He leaned back, his soft brown eyes in their web of sun-worn creases traveling over her face as gently as a caress. "The boats are still going out. The old men who can't fight, or the ones too young to join yet, they can handle it."

Brennan touched his cheek, aware of the heat from his hands against her back, through the silky rayon dress. The casual slide of his fingers raised goosebumps on her arms. "You never mentioned your desire to enlist, not in any of your letters."

Sully shrugged. They both knew there was much more that had gone unmentioned in what had become a regular exchange of correspondence over the years since their breakup. "I wanted to surprise you. Did it work?"

"It certainly did." She took his hand and led him to a sofa just out of view of the open door. "When do you ship out?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" The single word took the air out of her lungs. "But, Sully . . ."

"I got a 24-hour pass, I just didn't realize it would take most of that time to get here. The buses were all full . . . Never mind." He still held her hand, and turned his body so that their knees brushed. "I'm shipping out of Norfolk, on the USS Essex. You should see her, Tempe. She's beautiful. New, as of last year. We're headed to the Pacific."

"Oh, Sully." Brennan did not share his excitement. With her father too old to serve and her brother determined to stay with his wife and handicapped daughter, the war had not yet touched her on a personal level. Now, despite the years that had passed since the end of their fledgling love affair, it felt very personal.

Sully seemed determined to keep this brief interlude on a light note. "Come on, doll. How's about you let me buy you dinner. Gotta be a place around her we can eat, right?"

With her heart heavy, Brennan nonetheless smiled. "Of course. Give me a minute to freshen up and I'll be right down."

Curious faces poked out of the parlour but no one called out as Brennan quickly skipped upstairs. When she came back down, however, Caroline was waiting with Sully in the foyer.

"I'm going out for dinner, Mrs. Julian."

"Hrrumph." Caroline gave Sully a scathing once over, then turned to Brennan. "These doors are locked promptly at 10:00 pm. You just keep that in mind."

"Yes, Mrs. Julian."

Sully managed to wait until they were a few feet from the house and definitely out of earshot before he wrapped an arm around Brennan's waist and laughed. "Whoa. Roosevelt should think about sending her over to tell the Jerry's what's what. I know I'm quaking in my boots!"

"She has a house full of young, single women to protect in a city filled with soldiers," Brennan said loyally. "I find her presence comforting."

"Well, I'm glad to know you're in good hands." Sully squeezed her in close to his side and held her there. "Now, which way to the grub?"

.

.

The daily special in the small diner was meatloaf. Brennan only picked at her meal but watched as Sully plowed his way through two helpings of everything, served by a helpful waitress who shared the news that her son, too, was in the Navy. Over coffee, Sully apologized for his appetite.

"Feels like I haven't eaten since this morning . . . probably because I haven't," he laughed. "The bus stops didn't have food and I didn't think to bring my own."

"Where are you staying tonight?"

His eyes twinkled at her, teasing. "The bus depots let us sleep there while we're waiting for the next transport. Why, are you offering?"

Brennan laughed, feeling her cheeks grow pink. Memories lay between them, of hot, sultry nights serenaded by the sounds of the swamp, or lulled by the sway of a boat drifting in the water. "Should I re-introduce you to Mrs. Julian? If I took you back to my room, I might have to stow away on your ship afterward."

Sully reached for her hand, his face growing serious. "That's okay. Come with me."

This moment, too, felt familiar. Brennan tugged at her hand, only to find it held firm. "Sully . . ."

"I'm not asking you to wait for me, Tempe. That wouldn't be fair, me showing up like this out of the blue. But I promise that I'll come back, and when I do, then we can talk."

She got her hand free then, and dropped them both to her lap. "We've already talked, Sully. Years ago. Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed!" he insisted. "And with the war, well, now you've got all the time you need to get all that other stuff out of your system. All that education and . . . whatever. When I get back, when the war's over, we can talk about the future. Our future. One where you marry me and we have a couple of kids and . . ."

"No." It was the crux of their disagreement all those years ago, that the future he envisioned was not a life she wanted to live. Forcing her to make the decision again, especially now, with death an ever-present cloud and Sully preparing to sail right into it, angered her. "I'm not going to marry you, Sully. I don't want to marry anyone."

He brushed aside her words as he had before. "Of course you do. Every woman wants a husband and a couple of kids. I'll go help save the world and you go ahead and do this school thing and you know, when we have kids you can take them out and dig up bones with them. It will be fun."

Brennan was almost grateful for his cavalier dismissal of her hopes and dreams. It made it easier to push aside the memories of the passion and love they'd shared. It made it easier to walk away, again, from his version of her future. She took a deep breath and steeled herself to say what she must.

"Sully, I'm glad you came to see me and I hope that you'll write as often as you're able. I'll worry about you and I want to know that you're safe. But . . ." She met his gaze dry-eyed and hardened her heart against the hurt she saw there. "Don't come back for me. I don't love you, not like that. Not anymore. I'm sorry."

She left him sitting in the diner and walked back to the boarding house on her own, managing somehow to hold back the tears until she was alone, finally, in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to any of you WW2 experts who know that the USS Essex' home port is in Rhode Island. Work with me, people. It's fanfiction.


	3. A Hero On Hold

_The sky rained fire all around him. Bits of flame carved from the depths of hell itself searched for him, found thin sheets of aluminum . . . Punched through. The stick jerked in his hand from the force of the impact. The plane, the only protection from the inferno outside . . . from the ground below . . . bucked and shuddered, fighting against his struggle to hold it aloft. Screams surrounded him . . . from the men who flew with him, from the bullets streaking toward him. The enemy was just ahead, flying straight at him in a move both reckless and dangerous . . . and lethally effective._

_He felt the heat through his boots, inhaled the acrid scent of burning leather, then saw the orange glow at his feet. He ground his teeth against the pain and raged against the hopelessness of escape with one last thought . . ._

_He might die today, but he would take the other pilot with him._

.

.

.

It was a dream. Booth knew it was a dream even as he fought to free himself of a safety harness he wasn't wearing and shouted to the crew that wasn't there, promising to get them to safety.

It was a dream . . . He knew it was a dream . . .

_Fire . . . and heat . . . and pain . . ._

"Captain Booth!"

He had to wake up. If he could just wake up . . .

"Captain Booth!"

_Panicked screaming behind him . . . Someone praying out loud . . . His men . . . His crew . . . His responsibility . . ._

"Captain Booth!"

_Trapped . . . Get out of the cockpit . . ._

"Doctor! Doctor, over here please! Winklehurst, hold his legs, don't let him tumble out of bed. Gently, please! Mind his feet. Someone get Dr. Smythe-Chambers! Now!"

_Pull the nose up . . . His responsibility . . ._

"Yes, Matron, what's all this yelling about? Ah, our Yank is coming out of it, I see. Making a bit of a fuss, is he?"

_His crew . . . His men . . . His duty . . ._

"Morphine, I think. That should do the trick."

He felt a sharp pinch that in his fevered imagination became a bullet striking deep into his flesh . . . and then felt only peace. Blessed peace . . .

.

.

.

The fever broke the next day. He woke, groggy, with the foul taste of grit and cotton filling his mouth. The bleary haze behind his eyes cleared enough that he saw a row of narrow white-covered beds and uniformed nurses moving between them . . . then memory returned like a punch to the gut. His plane . . . his men . . . He struggled to free himself of the blankets covering him, kicking his legs and feet, unable to hold back a hoarse shout when pain lanced through him. A hand touched his arm.

"You don't want to be starting all that again, Captain. The nurses here are real quick with the jab. You keep making all that noise and one of 'em will get her needle out and put you under again, real quick."

The remnants of the dream held him fast in its grip, quickening his breath with panic. "My crew . . ."

"All safe. They're all safe, Captain. You got everyone home."

The comforting words and the familiar voice finally broke through the nightmare. Booth fell back against the bed and looked over at Lt. Clark Edison, sitting in a wheelchair beside his bed, one arm in a sling and salve glistening on his cheek over a nasty burn. A mistake in Army paperwork had assigned the young Black pilot not to the 332nd Fighter Group in North Africa with the rest of his Tuskegee classmates, but to the Eighth Air Force flying bombing missions over Germany. The disapproving grumbles from some of the men lasted until he took to the air for the first time. He flew with a skill that was breathtaking in its daring, hauling the somewhat clunky bomber into maneuvers that he made look as easy as if the plane was an extension of his own body. After seeing him fly, no one complained about his place in the squad.

"Where am I? What happened?"

Clark kept a sharp eye on him. "What do you remember?"

Thinking hurt. Booth raised one hand to his temple and felt the thick padding of a bandage as he forced his brain to work. What did he remember? Blue skies. Patchy white clouds. Acres of farmland below that should have been verdant and fertile but were instead pockmarked by devastation and the ravages of war.

"The mission," he ground out. "The bridge in Hamburg, we hit the target. Turned to come back. All clear the whole way there. No anti-aircraft fire. No flak. It was . . . wrong. Too quiet. Then the bastards came out of nowhere. Above us, out of the clouds. Too many of them. The fighters couldn't protect us . . . We couldn't protect them . . ."

He stopped, unable to go on, seeing the death spiral of planes behind his closed eyes.

"How many?"

Clark didn't have to ask what he meant. "The bombers all made it back, just barely. Some of the planes won't be going up again, though. Your's for instance, ain't even good for parts. Got some injuries on the crews, a few men scattered all over this hospital, some of them pretty banged up. Couple of pilots, and you. And . . . three fighters when down."

Booth slumped at the news, even though it was what he expected. "Goddammit. Who?"

"Mulvany. Crown." The hesitation was too long. Booth tensed, waiting for the third name. "Abernathy."

He would have exploded out of the bed if he'd been able to move without pain. The young hotshot fighter pilot, barely out of his teens, had swaggered into the barracks only three short weeks before, straight from flight school on his first assignment in the war. Quick with a joke, always laughing, his twangy southern drawl had become a fixture among the tightly-knit band of aviators. "No! I saw him head for the landing strip! His tail was smoking but he was fine!"

Clark stared down at his hands. "Near as we can figure out, he saw Skinner getting hit hard by two of the Jerrys, so Abernathy skimmed the grass but went right back up without landing. Skinner made it down safe but . . ."

"Stupid kid. Always talking about going home a hero . . ."

Booth didn't have to finish. There was no more to say and no more tears to shed. A sense of helplessness washed over him, mixed with rage at the waste of a young life. At all of the lives he knew would yet be sacrificed in a war that felt as if it would never end. He clamped his jaw shut and shoved the feelings away, deep into the void that held the rest of his emotions and whatever softness had existed in the man he'd been before the war. One day, if he made it through the next mission . . . if he lived . . . one day he might have to deal with the seething cauldron of anger and pain and simmering violence that underpinned every waking moment. One day, he might have a reckoning with himself.

Today, however, was not that day. He raked Clark with one keen glance. "What happened to you?"

Clark switched on a high-wattage smile with a speed that said he, too, was avoiding his own demons. "Nothing but a little scrape or two. I woulda already been out of here but, you know, they got a couple of nurses who feel real sorry for me. I thought I'd stay a while, see what kind of special treatment they have to offer."

Booth knew bravado when he heard it, especially when he saw a smear of blood leaking through the bandages wrapped around the thin torso, visible beneath the young man's hospital-issued gown. He let it pass. "Is that so. Well, don't keep all the pretty ones to yourself. Give the rest of us a chance." Still lying flat on his back, he tried to sit up, only to bite back a curse when pain shot up his legs. When he tried to flip the covers out of the way to check his injuries for himself, they caught over his toes and added to his misery. "What the hell is going on? What did they do to me?"

Clark knew better than to even crack a smile, regardless of how funny it was to see the captain flailing around on the bed. "Your nose caught fire, practically burned your boots right off. Took some skin, too, and then a little more when you managed to crawl out of the cockpit and run away. Made a good picture, though." He blinked innocently. "That photographer who was shadowing the squad, what is his name? Henry? He got one of you with the plane blowing up behind you. I hear it made the front page. You want me to get you a copy for your scrapbook?"

When Booth used a choice few four-letter words to tell him exactly what he could do with the front page picture, Clark cackled with laughter.

Unfortunately, the noise captured more attention than they wanted. At the other end of the ward, Matron's head turned toward them like a hunter sensing prey. She straightened from the bed of a young soldier whose head was almost completely covered in bandages and walked purposefully toward them. Middle-aged, with steel-grey hair rolled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck, she marched at a gait that sent the veil hanging from the back of her white cap gently swaying. The apron she wore over a starched blue dress was pristine and spotless, and with a short red capelet hanging from her shoulders, she had an air of authority that rivaled any general who had ever entered her ward. Every occupant in the room fell silent as she passed by.

She stopped at Booth's bed, stepping around to the side opposite where Clark Edison sat in his wheelchair. "Captain Booth, you're awake. How are you feeling?" Without giving him a chance to answer, she laid a cool hand across his forehead and then stuck a thermometer in his mouth. A raised eyebrow accompanied her study of the results when she removed it sixty-seconds later. "Good, your temperature has almost returned to normal. Would you like something to drink?"

"Whiskey would clean the cotton out of my mouth." Booth gave her a smile that would have raised a blush on any other woman's cheeks.

"So would water, and that's what you'll have." Matron was unimpressed with any soldier's smile, no matter how handsome. Back straight, hands clasped neatly in front, she regarded him without expression. "Now, what about lunch? Something light, perhaps? We don't want it coming right back up, do we? We want to put you firmly on the road to recovery before you return to America."

Her words landed like a dowsing of cold water. Shocked, Booth struggled to sit up again, managing only to raise himself onto one elbow. "What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."

Clark cleared his throat with a light cough. "Yeah, I was going to tell you about that. I overheard Colonel Armstrong talking to a 2-star last night. They were talking about sending you stateside for a while. Gonna have you out on stage somewhere, doing a song and dance and telling people to Buy Bonds!"

Booth puffed up with outrage. "The hell they are! There's a war going on! I'm staying right here!"

Matron tutted in disapproval. "Language, Captain Booth. You're not in your squad room now."

Ignoring the pointed scolding, he scowled at her. "Where's the Colonel? I want to talk to him right now!"

The peremptory order in his voice turned her gaze to ice. "I'm afraid I can't say. Despite my efforts, your commanders have refused to share their schedule with me."

Booth would have squirmed, if he'd been able to manage it in the narrow bed. His eyes dropped away. "You could have just said, 'I don't know.'"

"Yes, I could." The crisp tones gave no quarter. "I'll see to having a tray brought over with some lunch. In the meantime, I'm sure you need to void your bladder." She looked over the ward, found the nurse she wanted, and raised her voice. "Winklehurst! Over here, if you please, and bring a privacy screen with you. Captain Booth could use your assistance with a bedpan - -"

Colonel Armstrong and his plans were momentarily forgotten. In a mild state of uncomfortable panic, Booth clutched the blankets covering him and held on tight. "No, I don't need any assistance! I can handle the . . . the bedpan thing on my own!"

A faint trace of amusement glimmered in Matron's otherwise expressionless face. "Are you sure?"

Booth tugged the blankets up higher and grimaced at the sight of the shiny metal bedpan. He could already feel the cold edges biting into his backside. Winklehurst, hardly older than the now deceased Finn Abernathy, was a mottled shade of red when she handed it over, along with a heavy glass urinal. "Yea, I'm pretty sure I know how it works."

Matron was all brisk efficiency. "All right. Mind that you don't spill the contents on your bed. If you only need to use the urinal, we've found it works best if you lie on your side while voiding. Just call out when you're through and someone will retrieve it. As for you . . ."

The sympathetic smile drained quickly from Clark's face when she turned the full force of attention to him. He gulped nervously.

"It has not escaped my attention, Lieutenant Edison, that you require a great deal of care from my nurses, specifically the young and pretty ones."

Clark assumed a look of innocence that fooled no one. "I'm sorry about that, Matron. See, it's my bandages, I like to have them changed regular so they stay clean. And you know, I'm in so much pain . . ."

Matron looked down her nose at him. "Is that so. Perhaps I should assign someone to you directly. Nurse Belcher, perhaps. She's very capable. I'm sure you're familiar with her since your arrival a few days ago. She's been with the Royal Nurses Corp since the Great War. We were fortunate that she came out of retirement to work with us again."

The thought of being cared for by the veteran nurse with hands like catcher's mitts and a booming voice magnified by a bosom the size of a ship's prow, was clearly terrifying. "Uh . . . that won't be necessary."

"I thought not. Your bed is at the other end of the ward, Lieutenant. Find it. Now." As Clark obediently set to work rolling his wheelchair toward his own bed, Matron looked down at Booth again. "If I see your colonel in the ward again, Captain Booth, I'll be sure to send him over so that you can discuss your objections to his plans to ship you back to America. Until then, bedpan. Then lunch. I'll return shortly."

She dragged the privacy screen around his bed, then marched away. Booth listened to the rhythm of her shoes tapping on the floor, cursing under his breath as pain shot through his feet again when he tried to roll on his side.

Colonel or no colonel, as soon as he could walk, he was going back to his squad. He belonged with his men, not with some song and dance crowd back in the States.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The US military has an ugly history of racial separation that didn't end in WW2. The only African American pilots that flew in combat during WW2 were with the 332nd Fighter Group, the famed Tuskegee Airmen. I've taken the liberty of integrating the Eighth Air Force for the purposes of this story, and chose Dr. Edison because he's confident and bold and not above strutting when he's in the mood, all characteristics that scream "pilot" to me. #NoRegrets

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been keeping me up at night. Hold on to your hats, you're in for a fun ride! :-D


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